Winterwalk 12.1.012

Ren + Jiva

Blue nights-- throbbing globule winter lights
'neath the snow:
here we go, we're gonna die.

What an adventure
for our basalt times.

The icecrystals
hit my eyes,
but they formnothing;
punctuation declined, spaces defined.
Meter fucked, I'm dry
(I'm fine, I'm fine).

Perfection refined:
I fly, I'm
about to die.
I know naught, yet I arpeggiate:

I'm fine.
I'm fine.

Punctured sighs
from a soul collapsed:
the refrained echoes
aching, arching my spine;
but I decline your hand.

I'm fine.
I'm fine.

I can't, I
can't: the hairs
(on the bathmat):
they needle, they prance
as basemetal does dance, and
makes a mockery of our fleeting,
conjoinéd death-trance.

We elate, we elate, and--

in pairs (irate),
we elope, to the distaste
of bourgeois Antelope;

they snicker
and scorn, glaring at
the lovelorn (those cold and restless
wanderers in nighttime gloom--
chasers of the "open" neon room
where they might outrun the ice)

and hurry to their sterile sanctuaried traps;
and we clap, we clap, we collapse.

Exhaust;
permafrost;
relapse.